The Dilemma

by Abbie Taylor

  The choir was swelled by an adult chorus. The deeper male tones mingled with the high ones, drew them down, anchored them in a long moment of unexpected sweetness. Then the music died away. There was a minute of silence. Then came the sounds of coughing, shuffling and footsteps as the congregation began to appear from around the sides of the stalls. Dawn stood up as well. Down the sides of the Abbey trooped the church-goers, goggling up at the carved pillars and statues, speaking in hushed tones that grew louder and more confident the nearer they came to the doors. How cheerful and carefree they all looked. Probably planning to move on to some other tourist attraction or stop somewhere for something to eat. Their biggest worry would be what topping to put on their pizza. They laughed aloud, walking in groups of three or four abreast. Dawn, the only person on her own, was obliged to step aside to make room for them. She kept to the walls, out of their way. She noticed how few of them seemed to see or notice her. If they glanced in her direction it was to look through her, to comment on some carving or monument lying directly behind her. As if all that there was of her was a dark shadow on the stone.

  Will called her that evening.

  ‘I was giving you a chance to get some rest,’ he said. ‘How did your night shifts go?’

  Dawn had debated with herself through seven rings of the phone whether to answer it. But she needed someone to talk to. Someone to pull her back, to anchor her to the normal world. If she didn’t pick up the receiver, it might be days before she spoke to anyone again. Hoping that Will would call tonight, she had practised her responses in advance, modulating her voice so that it sounded normal, or at least not so strained that he would wonder what was wrong.

  ‘The night shifts were fine,’ she said. ‘But …’ She had practised this, too, and thought it would be easy to say, but at the last minute she had to pause to pinch the bridge of her nose. ‘Milly died.’

  ‘She what? Milly died?’

  ‘Yes. I found her yesterday morning. When I came back from work.’

  ‘Oh, Dawn. I’m sorry.’

  She pinched her nose again.

  ‘Was it an accident?’ Will asked. ‘Was she ill?’

  ‘I think so. I think she might have had a heart attack.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Well, you know. She was an old dog. Thirteen at least.’

  Will said nothing but she could almost see him there at the other end of the phone, pushing his glasses up, shaking his head in consternation. She could feel him there with her, through the connection, right there in the hall.

  ‘She’s still here,’ she said. ‘In her basket in the kitchen. I didn’t … I don’t really know what I should do with her.’

  ‘Would you like me to come over?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, please.’

  He was there in less than half an hour. There was the scrunch of a handbrake as his red Honda pulled up outside in the street. He had brought a long-handled spade.

  ‘The best thing to do,’ he said, ‘would be to bury her. In your garden, if you want to.’

  ‘Can we do that?’

  ‘As long as you’ve got the space. And a suitable site.’

  In the back garden, Dawn chose a peaceful spot: a small square of earth adjoining the back wall, under the hawthorn tree with its starry white flowers.

  ‘Will that be big enough?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know how … how deep it should be.’

  Will said in a practical way, ‘About four feet down, I would say. For a dog her size. You don’t want the foxes to get her.’

  The words were abrupt, callous even, but Dawn understood him. He had given her the necessary information, hadn’t attempted to dodge or skip around the facts, yet in his tone were sympathy and understanding. He began to dig under the tree, scooping the earth out and placing it in a neat pile to the side. The recent light rain had been just enough to loosen the soil. When the hole began to look deep enough, Dawn went back to the kitchen to fetch Milly.

  Will called after her. ‘I’ll bring her out if you like.’

  ‘No. I’ll manage.’

  Before wrapping Milly up for the last time, she took off her faded red collar and placed it on the table. Then she wound her blanket tightly around her. She lifted her from the basket and carried her out to the garden. Milly was heavy but not unmanageably so; about the weight of a small child.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said as Will reached to help. ‘I’ve got her.’

  She laid Milly in her grave; a small, bulky bundle of fleece and pawprints. One sooty black ear stuck out from the top of the blanket. The damaged, lopsided one that had been bitten years ago. Dawn released the bundle and stood back. Will began to replace the earth into the grave. A couple of spadefuls later and Milly was gone from view. Will worked methodically, patting down each layer of soil as he went so that all of it would fit back in. Again that sense of his quiet intelligence, the knowledge that was hidden in him but there when it was needed. He had come straight away, had said little but had known exactly what to do, how deep to go. It was for that very reason that Dawn had made sure to handle Milly herself, keeping her well covered with the blanket. If Will had taken her, he might have noticed the red stains and matted fur and wondered what was going on.

  And if he had?

  If she had told him, Dawn couldn’t help thinking – told him that night they’d had dinner on the South Bank – he would have known what to do. If she had asked him earlier for his help, things might never have ended up the way they had. But she had made her decision to say nothing and now it was too late to go back. At least now, as things were, Will never would have to know. Never would have to find out what she was really like. When the last spade of earth was patted on to the pile, she let out her breath and felt some of the tension inside her release.

  The little heap of soil was higher and darker than the ground around it. The shadow from the hawthorn tree lay over it, spreading outwards to the lawn. Already the rectangle of earth had begun to blend with the surrounding space. Milly was a part of the garden now, as much as if she had never been separate from it at all. Without thinking, Dawn said, ‘I feel so guilty.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Will said. ‘She was an old dog. You said so yourself.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dawn caught herself. ‘Yes, she was.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’ Will tapped the spade with his foot to release the dirt. ‘You can’t help everyone.’

  The sad little mound, darkening under the tree. ‘I don’t feel as if I’ve helped anyone.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that. You are worth so much. Remember that child in the café.’

  Will spoke so agitatedly, thumping the spade on the grass, looking at Dawn, then away again, that she knew before he spoke that something important was coming.

  ‘I’m moving back,’ he said. ‘Next week. To Keswick. I’ll still need to travel between there and London for a while, finishing off contracts and that, but overall … that’ll be it for me.’

  She had been expecting it, but it was still a shock. ‘Well.’ She tried to smile. ‘It was good to have had you down here with us. Even if it was just for a while.’

  ‘I hope we can still see each other. I hope you’ll come and visit me.’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘They’ve got hospitals up there, you know.’ Will was concentrating again on the spade, kicking hard at a stubborn clump of earth. ‘I was looking into it. They need nurses. I know you’d never think of it in a million years – not a Matron as well-established as you – but …’

  ‘I would,’ Dawn said. ‘I would think of it.’

  ‘Really?’ Will looked at her. His face had lit up. His cheeks were flushed and shiny, as if he had never expected to hear anything so wonderful. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  And just like that, though she was surprised to have heard herself say it, it was true. She never would have thought of it, but now that Will had said it, it was the first thing in a long time that
seemed right. St Iberius was poisoned for her now. Working there would never be the same. And what else was there to keep her in London? Cumbria might not turn out to be the answer either, but … She had a sudden vision of herself – her and Will – walking by the lake at Buttermere, climbing a slope through a green, damp wood.

  ‘I’ll make some enquiries,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what might be available or what might suit, but … I’ll certainly give it a try.’

  The expression on Will’s face told her what he felt. In that moment, she could almost feel it herself. Up there, at the Lakes, everything would be fresh and unspoiled and new. She could be a new person; in time, perhaps, even be the person Will thought she was. If things worked out, in time, perhaps, she might be able to start all over again.

  Will left her house early the next morning. He still had a contract to finish in town.

  ‘I’ll call and see you this evening.’ He stood smiling down at her, messy in his rumpled shirt and small, kind eyes.

  When he was gone, she fell into a deep doze. Even with Will there, solid and stable beside her, she had not slept well last night. Now, as if his presence was all that had prevented it, she found herself in the middle of a dream. St Iberius was on fire again. The patients were calling to her and she was trying to find them in the smoke. She pushed against the doors of the ward but they wouldn’t move. Something was blocking them from the other side. She shoved as hard as she could, until her arms trembled with the effort, but the doors refused to budge. One by one, the screams from the other side faded, until there was silence. Only then did the doors swing open. Standing between them were Clive and Mrs Walker. ‘You’re too late,’ they said, smiling at her through blackened teeth. ‘Much too late. All of them are dead.’

  Dawn woke with a start. The sun was white on the daisy-patterned walls. She lay there, comforted by the reassuring warmth.

  It’s over now, she told herself. Time to move on.

  It would take a little while, she knew. In the meantime, today was Monday and she was on her holidays. No pagers. No phone calls. No worries about e-mails and wondering what might be in them. No paperwork even. Francine could deal with all of that now. Dawn would take a proper break, the first she’d had for a very long time. Concentrate on recovery and healing and new plans.

  Downstairs, Milly’s basket was still sitting by the washing-machine, the same spot where it had been since Milly had first come here as a terrified pup all those years ago. Dawn carried it out to the wheelie bin in the back lane. Also Milly’s dog biscuits and water bowls and her remaining tins of dog food. The only thing she kept was Milly’s faded red collar. She wrapped the collar in a sheet of tissue paper left over from Christmas and looked about for somewhere to put it. The odds-and-ends drawer in the kitchen was as good a place as any. She opened the drawer and tucked the collar in next to the bulky cardiac Resus kit, still awaiting its review.

  Then she brewed herself some strong coffee.

  The kitchen was too quiet. The only sound came from the intermittent hum of the boiler outside the back door. The space by the washing-machine where Milly’s basket had been was marked by a greyish circle on the linoleum. In time, the sun coming through the back door would fade it, but for now it still looked very obvious. Dawn got up and took her coffee through to the sitting-room. But even there, sitting on the couch, she found herself staring at the sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, flattened in the centre in a Milly-shaped dent. She got up again. Old habits died hard. With nothing else to do, and despite what she had promised herself earlier, she wandered in to the dining room to check her e-mails. She’d do one quick check, just to see if there was anything urgent to be forwarded to Francine. She wouldn’t deal with any issues herself, no matter how pressing they were. She wouldn’t even send anything to Francine that wasn’t of absolutely earth-shaking importance.

  The screen lit up. Dawn clicked through to her e-mail account. One new message. The subject line read, Urgent. Matron Torridge. Forest Ward.

  The sender was Well-wisher.

  Dawn had just taken a mouthful of coffee. The whole lot of it went straight into her lungs. She coughed and choked, jerking her chair back, almost tipping it on to the carpet. How could that e-mail be there? How could it be? How could Clive possibly have sent it?

  A series of cold dots, like scrawny fingers, crawled on her scalp. She saw Clive again as he had been in her dream, smiling at her through his blackened teeth. She saw him climbing off his trolley in the Mortuary in the hospital basement, stealing down the hill to the railway bridge and through the darkened streets to her house. Creeping in here while she slept to leave this final gloating message on her laptop.

  Then the cold spots vanished. For God’s sake! Really, this holiday hadn’t come a day too soon. It was blindingly obvious how the message came to be there. The last time Dawn had checked her e-mail was on Friday evening, before leaving for her night shift. Clive could have sent this to her at any time since then. Almost certainly he had done it sometime on Saturday, because by Saturday night, of course, he had been dead. He had probably sent this in response to Dawn’s having kicked him out of the hospital on the Friday night. The only surprising thing was that he had been capable of it. He had been so agitated in the locker room, sweating, jittery, twitchy enough to leap out of a window at any moment. Obviously whatever he’d had to say had been important enough for him to make the effort. She could imagine what would be in the message. A venomous, vitriolic rant about how if she ruined his life he would make damn sure hers was destroyed as well. Perhaps even a detailed, gloating description of what he had done to Milly. Dawn gritted her teeth. Well, she would not read it. She would not give him the satisfaction. She raised her finger in the air above the Delete button.

  But she did not press it.

  She owed Clive. He had lain there, his arms and legs trapped, pleading with her, the one person who could help him, for his life. And she had stood there and done nothing. The memory of it made her shift in her seat. The least she owed him was some degree of respect. Whatever his intentions, he had felt strongly enough to write this final message to her. Well, then, whatever was in it, she would read it. Take the trouble to acknowledge what he had felt.

  She opened the e-mail. Through the dust on the screen she read the words.

  Dear Matron,

  I hope you are well.

  Following on from my previous message, the time has now come for an update. The name of the patient I mentioned to you is Gordon Farnley. I hope you remember what we agreed?

  I can now confirm that Mr Farnley is being

  admitted to St Iberius this morning. He will be going to Ocean Ward on the second floor.

  Once again, I promise you, if you do this it will be over. When Mr Farnley is no longer with us, you will have paid your debt and you will not hear from me again.

  Sincerely,

  A well-wisher

  The dust seemed to lift in a cloud off the screen. The air darkened, blotting out her vision. Dawn scrubbed frantically at her eyes. Gordon Farnley? Gordon Farnley? Surely he meant James Franks? She took her hands from her face and reread the words. Being admitted to St Iberius this morning … Clive must have written this on Saturday. There was no other day he could have done it. But why would this Gordon Farnley person have been admitted to St Iberius on a Saturday? Elective patients were never admitted on a Saturday. Weekends were strictly for emergencies.

  She knew the answer even before she could admit it to herself. She went to check the timing of the message and her fingers bunched and fumbled like clumps of spaghetti, pressing several keys at once. She managed to scroll the message back up, her hands pawing at the keyboard.

  Time sent, the message read: 10.25 a.m.

  One hour ago.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Not Clive! Not Clive! The coffee she had inhaled tightened her lungs, made her wheeze and fight for breath. The blackmailer was not Clive. The pounding in her head jerked every nerve in he
r body. Despite the crazy fluttering of her pulse, however, the odd thing was that her body on the outside remained completely still.

  After a while, the stillness of her body began to spread to the inside. Not just the wheezing in her lungs, but all the colours and jumble in her head subsided until finally she sat there, empty. Ivy Walker, cold in her cheap coffin; Milly, struggling in the night with a knife in her side; Clive, pinned to his trolley, his thin hands twitching – all had left her, floated away. It was easiest just to sit there in her dressing gown, staring into the crystal sparkles on the sideboard. The one thing she knew now was that this would never be over.

  She might have sat there for ever but for the thought that came swimming out of nowhere: Now you know who Mr F is. He is Mr Gordon Farnley, a patient at St Iberius Hospital. And whether you like it or not, you are still the Matron there and he is your responsibility.

  She did her best to ignore the intrusion. What could she do about it anyway? If she interfered, she would make a mess of it, as she had of everything else. But the thought would not go away. Mr Farnley is in trouble. His safety is in your hands. You have to warn him.

  It was like a painful pressure in her ears. Dawn turned her head to get away from it. All right, then. All right! She would warn him! Get up, go in there and make him listen. Tell him: ‘Someone is trying to kill you. They are dangerous. They killed my dog.’ She would stay until she was certain he was taking it seriously. She would say to him, ‘Don’t be alone with anyone. Get a relative in, a friend. Get the police. Let me be the last person you are alone with.’ Only when she knew he was safe would she leave him.

  And after that … then what? Then what?

  It was three o’clock when Dawn walked through the hospital entrance. Several staff and patients greeted her at the glass doors but she barely noticed them. She walked with her gaze fixed straight ahead, her mouth stiff, as if her face had been anaesthetised.